


little is much

by MannaTea



Series: Tales from Hope Valley [1]
Category: When Calls the Heart (TV)
Genre: 1911, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:00:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22325992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MannaTea/pseuds/MannaTea
Summary: Abigail prepares for a busy day when Mr. Coulter's sawmill opens for business.
Relationships: Abigail Stanton & Elizabeth Thatcher
Series: Tales from Hope Valley [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607023
Comments: 12
Kudos: 6





	little is much

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story in a new little series I'll be putting together: a collection of short stories about the many characters of Hope Valley. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this one; if you do, please leave a comment and say hi!

Spring 1911

* * *

The day began with a prayer:

_Dear God,_

_Thank you for another day. I will do my best today, as every day, but I can always use a little extra help and guidance from You._

_Amen._

* * *

It was a busy morning, what with the sawmill opening and all. Abigail Stanton looked at the clock for what felt like the millionth time and paced the café kitchen again. Patience was usually one of her better virtues, but there would be a rush before work began at the mill. Everything had to be perfect, or at least nearly so. The men would be hungry and this was the sort of opportunity that could cement her café as _the_ place to go first thing in the morning.

Elizabeth had expressed her doubts about being open so early, but Abigail could not be swayed from trying it. The doors weren’t even open yet and she had dozens of ideas whirling about in her head for the future. For the men who lived in temporary housing, why not offer a cheap boxed lunch? Perhaps a discount for having breakfast _and_ lunch in the same day? Breakfast and _supper_?

It seemed presumptuous. Silly, even. The miners had loved the option of eating at her café for the short amount of time they’d had it, but the lack of work since the mine’s closure had forced many customers to stop coming. Would they return before they even had their first paycheck? Maybe Elizabeth was right—it was too early to be open for breakfast, especially before any of the men had received a paycheck.

Abigail wiped her palms on the skirt of her apron and chided herself. All this second-guessing wasn’t going to do anyone any good. She’d just have to open the doors and see. Surely at least a few men would stop in for a bite before their shift. They’d be hungry and they could use the energy. She’d agonized over the pricing, too, to ensure it was fair. Eggs weren’t expensive, after all; there was no reason to overcharge for them.

Maybe she could keep hens. They’d earn their keep fast enough.

No, buying from others in town was better. Cat Montgomery knew chickens, and nobody could compete with the amount of eggs she collected every day. Besides, the egg money helped. It might be a little cheaper to raise the chickens herself, but at what cost?

It didn’t seem worth it.

She looked at the clock again. Thirty seconds and the biscuits had to come out. Not a moment more or they’d grow hard too quickly to feel good about serving. It was just enough time to walk around the little dining area again, to make sure the silverware was clean and placed properly.

* * *

The doors opened at half past six, and she lit the lanterns by the front, just in case there was any doubts as to if she was open from a distance. She scurried back to the stove to make sure it was still hot, and looked over her pans again, feeling an awkward mix of embarrassment and adrenaline crash down her arms.

If nobody stopped in, it didn’t necessarily mean anything _bad_. It was just…too early, as Elizabeth had suggested it might be. Or perhaps the men needed to see a paycheck before stopping in again. It made sense.

The bell on the door jingled and she nearly dropped the frying pan she was holding. Some businesswoman she was, she thought, and settled it on the table before rushing out to greet the first customer of the day.

It was Mr. Coulter himself, dressed nicely but looking a little rumpled. Maybe he was a little nervous about his first day being officially open and in business.

Abigail offered him a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Coulter.”

“Morning,” came his reply, cheerfully enough. “Could I get a little coffee and something to eat?”

“Any preference?”

“Anything’ll do it, but I suggest it be something you don’t mind making a few more times. Saw a few of the men heading this way, and when they see what I’m eating, they might want to try it themselves.”

She couldn’t help the thrill that ran through her at the thought of more business. The café was on the way to the sawmill, and that made it an easy target for business. It would be nice if Lee was right.

And it would be better than nice if she could get this first day perfect in the hopes of happy returning customers.

“How does an omelet sound?” she asked.

“No peppers and add a slice of toast with some jam?”

“Strawberry?”

“That sounds amazing.”

“I’ll bring it out in just a moment.”

She’d scarcely poured Mr. Coulter’s cup of coffee when the door jingled again, and in walked someone she couldn’t put a name to. One of the new workers, she assumed. He greeted Mr. Coulter cheerily and took the seat across from him, folding his hat into his hands.

She was there with the coffee as quickly as she could move, setting it down carefully for Mr. Coulter before she turned to the other man.

“What can I get you?”

“Could I get an egg sandwich? Just a well-done egg between two pieces of toast.”

“Coffee?”

He looked at his seatmate’s cup and nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

“Coming right up.” She didn’t even have to write it down. Simple. Easy.

And then the door jingled again. If she didn’t get to cooking, nobody would get any food, but she also couldn’t just let people walk in without acknowledging them. Mr. Backus was already shuffling toward a seat by the wall, looking as neat and tidy as he had at the Miner’s Dance.

It lightened her spirits considerably.

“I’ll get you some coffee, Mr. Backus,” she told him cheerfully, knowing he would enjoy a cup, and hurried to the kitchen to pour it and start the eggs.

* * *

The rush was a quiet one, rushes considered. Abigail served fourteen before Elizabeth came flying down the stairs, fretting about her hair acting uncooperative.

“When I was your age I would have done anything for your curls,” Abigail teased her. “I always thought my hair was flat and dull.” And not even a pretty color, unlike Elizabeth’s rich brown.

“Today I’d take flat over tangled! You wouldn’t _believe_ how long it took to get it in order.” Elizabeth plopped herself into a seat with a sigh and then peeked out into the dining area. “Business looks respectable,” she said, and turned hopeful eyes to Abigail. “How was it?”

Abigail had to think of a response. To say it was ‘quiet’ might sound too negative, and it hadn’t been as bad as all that. It hadn’t been exactly busy, either. She finally settled on, “Manageable.”

“Oh, I’m glad. Do you have time for another customer?”

Abigail blinked at her. “Who? You?”

“Of course me!”

“You’re no customer, Elizabeth. You’re a guest.”

“Who fully intends to earn her keep one way or another. If you won’t let me pay for my meals, I’ll be forced to…to…clean up, that’s what!”

“You won’t have time before school starts.”

“Then I’ll get started as soon as I’m home again. You’d best save a few for me, Abigail, or I’ll be very disappointed.”

“I’ll save at least one.”

“Five, or I’ll be forced to offer to cook, and you know what a disaster that will be!”

Abigail did, but couldn’t help but try her luck one last time: “Three dishes and two utensils with no cooking assistance.”

Elizabeth grinned and snatched a biscuit from the basket on the table, swiftly demolishing it in two rather unladylike bites. “Deal.”

* * *

Lunch was busier than breakfast, but not by much. The men at the mill had too short a break to stop in, but Abigail’s Café had its usual customers, including the part-owner, Mr. Gowen. Abigail hardly knew what he was up to these days, except the usual scheming. Since the trial against Pacific Northwest had ended, he’d been awfully squirrely; it was better not to provoke him. He could be unpredictable.

Cat stopped by with an egg delivery and was promptly fed a hearty lunch (despite her insistence that she could fix herself something at home). It was the least she could do, and Cat had enough to worry about as it was, raising three children alone.

After Cat left, it was silent but for some soft chatter in the dining area and the clink of cutlery, and finally even that faded after the last lunch customers left. Abigail carefully turned the sign to _closed_ and headed for the kitchen to wash dishes in preparation for supper.

She’d never much cared for clean-up. It was the worst household chore—worse even than laundry. Knowing it was inevitable took at least half the fun out of cooking. But it was a good time for thinking, and Abigail Stanton had been doing an awful lot of that, lately. Ever since the accident. Tragedy. Whatever one wanted to call it. She preferred to think, still, that it was more accident than not. Surely Mr. Gowen hadn’t intended any harm toward those men. It wouldn’t make any sense.

It didn’t really matter what anyone called it, anyway. It still hurt even though the ache had settled deep inside and had mostly gone quiet. At times like this it almost felt safe to bring it out again and look at it, to turn it over in her hands.

Did that mean she wasn’t as ready to move on as she thought she was? No, maybe not. Everyone was different. Florence clung to the memories of her Paul as if she would forget them all if she did so much as blink for too long. Molly had distracted herself by raising her daughter. Abigail had no such distraction and no such attachment to the past. Dwelling on it for the sake of what-ifs was a waste of time. She couldn’t change anything, now. She could only do better for the future, and the only person who could steer her toward that future was herself—and God, of course.

And Abigail’s Café was where she’d been led.

She wondered what Noah would think of the café. He would have disapproved, but only because family came first and he’d worry she wouldn’t have the time and energy for her family on top of the café. There was a good chance of that. Peter wouldn’t have minded the café if she still had time to make him his favorite meals.

Meatloaf would make a good special. Maybe she’d save that one for the days that felt the hardest to get through.

If Noah and Peter were alive, she wouldn’t be here, sleeves rolled up, arms soaked to her elbows in hot water. She’d be doing the laundry, maybe, because Thursday had always been her laundry day. Or she’d be at Ned’s getting supplies for supper. The Abigail of a year ago seemed almost like a different woman. She wasn’t sure she even recognized herself.

The door jingled, and Abigail forced her head up.

“Sorry, we’re closed!” she called out knowing full well that if they asked nicely, whoever they were, she’d fix them a plate.

“So the sign says.” The voice was careful and soft; it was the new pastor. He gave her a smile and held up a crate. “Ned Yost asked me to bring this over, since it was on the way.”

He waited patiently in the dining area for her to dry her hands, but brought it over the threshold into the kitchen when she waved him in. A quick pry bar to the lid and she couldn’t help but smile; it was the assortment of supplies she’d ordered almost three months earlier: matching utensils, a new frying pan, and enough spices to get her through at least three months.

“I take it you’ve been waiting for these.”

“We’re a little out of the way,” she explained. “It can take months to get things. Thank you very much for dropping it off; it’ll come in handy for supper.”

Except the frying pan. That would need to be seasoned properly. But the utensils could be washed right away.

“You’re welcome. Need anything else while I’m here?”

A curious thing to ask. She shook her head and started picking out the utensils, setting them carefully in the dishwater one by one. “Did you want anything to eat?”

“A biscuit’ll do me,” he said, and reached for the basket. There was just one left in the bottom. She would have to make more. “How much?”

“No charge, Pastor, since you saved me the hassle of having to get this myself.” And having to carry it; cast iron was heavy.

“It was my pleasure,” he said, and smiled. It was hard not to notice his eyes; they seemed so kind. As if it really had been his pleasure to carry the parcel to her kitchen table.

He left quietly, biscuit in hand, and she got back to her dishes. She still wasn’t sure what to make of the town’s newest pastor, but he already seemed a little more to her taste than Reverend Anderson had been, and she didn’t dare think too deeply about the man who had pretended to be Pastor Hogan: he wasn’t hers to judge, anyway.

She wondered what he’d thought of the town’s name when he’d come across the posting. What had he thought of them? What had he expected to find here?

Maybe someday she’d ask him.

* * *

Elizabeth’s flushed face bursting into the café kitchen was the most welcome thing Abigail had ever seen in her entire life. She must have given away her relief by the look on her face, or her wrinkled, stained apron, for Elizabeth’s immediate reaction was to gasp and ask what was wrong.

“Oh, nothing is _wrong_ —we’re just _busy_!”

And busy was putting it mildly: the dining room was full to capacity with men from the sawmill. Mr. Graves had even brought the family to celebrate, surely as happy as the rest of the town that they all had jobs.

Abigail had been prepared for a few extra mouths waiting to be fed, but _this_?

She gave Elizabeth a helpless shrug and hurried back out of the kitchen, hands full of coffee and biscuits. By the time she made it back, Elizabeth had pushed up the sleeves of her dress and was haphazardly tying on an apron.

“Do _not_ argue, Abigail,” she insisted before Abigail could even think of anything to say. “It’s clear you need a little help, and that’s what I intend to give. You’re nearly out of plates, and I can wash them at least as fast as people can clean the food from them.”

“You’ll ruin your hands,” was Abigail’s weak attempt at a reply. She _did_ want the help; in fact, she needed it. But it seemed wrong somehow to make Elizabeth help her. After all, this was _her_ venture, not Elizabeth’s.

But Elizabeth was, if nothing else, well-meaning. She gave Abigail a thoroughly wilting look, one reserved for what Abigail imagined was a special occasion (like talking a friend out of courting a fool, or warning one against wearing the wrong fashion onto a public Hamilton thoroughfare), and tossed her hair. It settled exactly where it had been sitting before, curled sweetly around her face. “Hands, schmands,” she said. “It’s not every day I get to be useful in the kitchen!” And she plunged them right into the water, almost defiantly so.

Abigail couldn’t help but give a tired laugh. Maybe she would have to get help for the kitchen, though she couldn’t imagine who might be interested. Maybe one of the school girls would like to make some money after school. Meal included? Elizabeth shouldn’t have to help her to make things work.

But she wasn’t given time to think on it. She had to pull another chicken out of the oven before it overcooked.

* * *

The supper rush left both women winded and red-faced. Elizabeth’s curls had started to sag from the humidity of the dishwater wafting into her face, and Abigail was sweating from leaning over the stove.

But the last customer left satisfied and before seven o’clock. Abigail had never been so happy to turn her _open_ sign to _closed_ before.

Elizabeth swatted at her damp sleeves in a futile attempt to keep them pushed back, and reached for a helping of the leftover asparagus. “How do you manage to cook well _and_ fast?” she asked. “In Hamilton, everything was served at a specific time, and it was expected to be good, but your cooking rivals Martha’s _and_ she had help making food for just one family. I don’t know how you do it!”

“I’m still learning,” Abigail admitted. “I used to cook for raisings and the like, but this is different—making it fresh and as they order it. Mostly. I think I’ll have to add a few more things that don’t have to be made as fresh.”

“Sounds like you have ideas.”

“If I could get a second stove, I could keep it warm, but not hot, and then I could make a few batches of, say, meatloaf, and just keep them well-warmed for supper.”

“But where in the world would you put it?” Elizabeth looked around the kitchen thoughtfully, but shook her head. “I suppose if you close the side entrance…”

“I’d prefer to keep it…” Having another way out of the building was useful. If she needed air she could get it, and it gave her another door guests could use that helped separate her business from her home. “I’ll think of something. If business stays this good, I’ll need to hire someone to help every day.”

“I think you should ask Mr. Gowen to do his fair share around here.” Elizabeth’s voice was sour, but her eyes sparkled a little with laughter. “I think I know of at least a few people who would come for a meal if they knew they’d get a glimpse of him wearing one of your aprons.”

A snicker worked its way out of Abigail’s mouth. “That’s not very gracious of you,” she said, but wasn’t sure she meant it. She felt certain Mr. Gowen would find himself up to no good again soon, and hoped she wouldn’t be the intended target.

“Did you have someone better in mind?”

“I can’t say I do…” She picked at her chicken and sighed. “I can’t picture Florence Blakeley tolerating washing dishes for me, and Molly has her hands full after school. I guess that’s true of all the mothers.”

“Depending on what it pays, I’d think you’d find at least one person willing to work a few hours a day. Probably more. Jobs are a bit scarce around here, after all.”

Being in charge of other people seemed odd to Abigail. She’d never been a boss before. Could she fire someone if she had to? Probably, but she’d hate every second of it. Not that it mattered; if things continued to be this busy, she’d definitely need the help.

“Well,” she said, pushing a stray hair out of her face, “if you have any older kids who might be responsible enough to help out…feel free to see if they might be interested.”

Elizabeth looked pleased at the suggestion. “I already have a couple in mind. I’ll speak to them tomorrow. For what it’s worth I think it’s a good idea—hiring someone. It could take some of the pressure off of you and give someone else a way to make a little money.”

“There’s just one issue I can think of…”

“Mr. Gowen?”

“Yes.” Abigail frowned. “As a sort of…partner in this…he does have a say.”

Elizabeth tossed her head. “I say he doesn’t get a say if he’s not willing to get behind the stove.”

“And he might say if I hire someone it comes out of my earnings and not his.”

“It would surprise exactly _no one_ if he said that. It sounds like the kind of nonsense he’d spew. Well,” Elizabeth huffed, “he should be delighted at the idea of you needing help. It means business is exceeding expectations.”

“I hope he’ll feel that way.”

“He will if he knows what’s good for him. But enough dreary talk—I haven’t the patience for it and I have papers to grade. _You_ did well tonight. You should be proud of yourself.”

“It was thanks to your help, Elizabeth.”

“Oh, nonsense. I only washed dishes!”

“And if you hadn’t I’d be washing them still. So thank you.”

Elizabeth smiled, and speared the last of her asparagus. “You’re welcome,” she said, and placed it delicately in her mouth.

* * *

Abigail’s bedroom was quiet. Even after months living in the upstairs of the café, it still didn’t feel quite right. She’d spent almost all her life living with other people, feeling someone in the bed next to her or hearing noise from the next room: all of her brothers for the first part of her life, and then a husband and son. The quiet at night was difficult, sometimes.

But it was a good time to think, and prepare, and pray. She’d prayed off and on all day, of course, probably a thousand times, mostly for and because of little things.

But bedtime was different. It had to be a prayer worthy of ending the day: one of reflection, one of thoughtfulness, and most importantly, one of hope. Because that’s what they all needed, now.

So she closed her eyes and folded her hands and smiled when the silence was broken by the creak of Elizabeth’s bed across the hall as she turned over.

_Dear God,_

_Thank You for all of Your blessings. It was good to see Mr. Backus continuing to improve today. Thank you for sending us Mr. Coulter and his sawmill. I know we doubted You at first, but Elizabeth is making a difference in our children’s lives. We are so blessed to have her here. Please continue to work with her to bless our children and help them shine. The ache that Florence still feels… If you could only put Your arms around her for a moment, she might not feel it so keenly. Bless the new pastor and help him lead us the way You would have him lead. Give Molly and Cat the strength they need to carry on._

_And if there’s anything left, please grant me the patience and kindness I need to get through tomorrow._

_Amen._

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a sermon I heard as a teenager (based on the hymn by Kittie L. Suffield): "Little Is Much When God Is in It."
> 
> Thank you very much for reading. If you enjoyed the story, please drop a 'kudos' and/or leave a comment to let me know! Feedback is the fuel that keeps writers writing, after all. ♥


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